


song comes singing (from the midnight places)

by fandomlver



Series: the fight that will give you the right (to be free) [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, I say yes, Remix, is it still a remix if it's your own stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7505422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, it's the crossover absolutely no one asked for! I have melded my two beloved universes, so this is Empath!Charles going to Spain under Domingo. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Precious Things (are)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312617) by [fandomlver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver). 



He doesn’t have much time to decide, and this is too important a decision to leave to chance. d’Artagnan has no choice. For the first time since leaving that clearing in the forest, he lowers his shields.

He’s almost forgotten how to do it. Aramis would be horrified to learn how long he’s been shielding without a break. He’s silently grateful for Flora. Without her teaching he’d be insane by now, and Louis would likely be dead.

He gets his shield down. He focuses on Domingo. He ignores the cacophony around him.

Domingo plans to let Louis go. He’ll keep his word, and though he won’t go easy on d’Artagnan, there’s no intent to deliberately harm him either. He’s too curious for that.

d’Artagnan shakes himself out of the feelings, looks Domingo in the eyes, and answers him.

 

The guards are itching for a chance to hurt him. He’d be able to tell that much even without his Ability. He’s careful not to give them any reason to. The lashes are healing, but he’s not fit to take anyone on right now.

The evening the storm hits he feels their hatred peak. Instead of following them inside, he slips away to hide among the coils of rope in a corner. They’re furious down below, but none of them will come up on deck in this weather. He waits until they’ve drunk themselves to sleep before going down.

The stench hits him as soon as he reaches his alcove. His bedding is soaked and stinking. It’s not a big problem; half the guards are unconscious in the common area. He switches his bedding with the nearest empty alcove and settles into sleep.

The glares in the morning make up for the extra pushes and shoves he gets that day.

 

Domingo’s estate is larger than Charles was expecting, although to buy two slaves on little more than a whim he’d have to be wealthy.

His room in Domingo’s suite is surprisingly comfortable, his duties aren’t onerous, and Domingo seems to look at him more as a friend than anything else. Charles dares to think that this might be something close to bearable.

Shuddering under Marcus’ whip, he knows he was fooling himself. This will never be other than torture. Marcus’ enjoyment grates against him, worse than the whip itself, multiplying his suffering tenfold.

Marcus has an Ability. The irony of it almost makes him laugh. Marcus touches him and takes control of his body, walking him around as though he could do it under his own power. It’s a neat way to hide how far he’s gone with the whip.

Maria is crying nearby. The man who’d hurt her has been dismissed, at least. That makes it easier to bear, easier to forget that dreadful resigned hopelessness she’d felt. Not even fear, it was too common an experience for that. Just that awful nothing.

He doesn’t plan to let any of them feel that way again.

 

He should have known Porthos was in the grounds, of course, should have recognised the flare of his anger and the taste of his determination. But it’s so out of context in this new place, in the life he’s painstakingly carved out for himself here. He saves Porthos from the beating, but he sends him away without listening to him.

He doesn’t look for the others. He doesn’t want to know if they’re here or not. He doesn’t think he could bear it either way.

Aramis arrives. Charles isn’t really surprised to find him chatting with the stable boy. Aramis would always have fitted in the best here.

He doesn’t let himself read any of Aramis’ emotions. He knows what it looks like, his submission to a Spanish master. He doesn’t dare see what they think of him.

He does sense Aramis’ anger as the punishment manacles lock on. He has no hope of avoiding it, but it’s irrelevant. Aramis will be leaving soon, and Charles can go back to managing Domingo. He’s growing good at it now.

 

Athos almost breaks him.

Hearing his best friend unhesitatingly proclaim him a traitor to the Musketeers injuries him in ways Domingo never managed. He keeps his shields up and his gaze locked somewhere past Athos and ignores the clumsy mental pushes. He sends the scullery boy to feed him, and later to feed Aramis, and tries to pretend they aren’t there at all.

Domingo sends him back to France. He isn’t surprised, really. That strange curiosity never really faded, but Domingo is one retired merchant. He can’t hope to stand against the Musketeers.

He keeps his shields up as Athos and Aramis escort him out. Neither touches him. He thinks that’s Aramis’ influence. Athos never had grasped the intricacies of mental Abilities very well, no matter how hard he’d tried.

Charles doesn’t think much as they walk. When they stop, he obeys orders and sits. Athos and Aramis are talking quietly. He wonders if they’re discussing his execution, and doesn’t care.

“Charles.” Aramis is crouched in front of him, off balance and empty handed; deliberate attempts to make him relax.

“Aramis,” he answers evenly.

“Charles, are you mirroring?” 

It’s in French, and the sheer incongruity of it gives him pause. “Am - what?”

“Are you _mirroring_.”

He wonders vaguely how Aramis even knows that term. Most empaths learn it only through bitter experience. Surrounded by people who all feel the same way, an empath sometimes begins to feel the same way, their own emotions subsumed under what they’re feeling. He’s heard from Flora about a young woman who changed religions after living near a Protestant church for a while, and not only converted but believed fervently and wholeheartedly for the rest of her life. From Aramis’ point of view it’s probably a valid concern, but Charles is fairly sure it hasn’t happened here. He doesn’t feel loyal to Spain, or an inclination to hurt them. He doesn’t feel much of anything.

He’s not quite sure what the point of asking is, either. If he’s now loyal to Spain, he’s hardly likely to say so. “No,” he says anyway. “I’m not mirroring.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m shielding.”

“May I?” Aramis holds out his hand.

Charles stares at it for what feels like a very long time. “I’m not injured.”

“I know.”

“I’m shielding. You won’t get anything.”

“Still. So Athos doesn’t worry, hmm?”

Charles stares at him for another long time before he realises Aramis is actually going to wait for him. “All right?” he says, guessing a little at the proper answer.

Aramis smiles at him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder, just inside the neck of his tunic. Charles shivers at the touch; he’s not used to it, any more, this gentle touch inside.

Aramis rummages around for a few moments - Charles notices the low level pain in his wrists vanish - before letting go, pulling back a little. “Thank you.”

It doesn’t seem to require a response, so Charles doesn’t give one.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis tries talking to him, over the next while. Charles is, if not exactly obstructive, not very helpful. It isn’t on purpose; he honestly can’t track most of the questions.

“How long have you been shielding for?”

He doesn’t know how long he’s been free of Domingo, nor how long before that Aramis was on the estate.

“How are you feeling?”

That one might be even harder, he’s so disconnected from his body at the moment. He usually hazards “Well, thank you” to that one, but he thinks they can tell it’s not true.

“What would you like?”

That one is hard mostly for the amount of thought that goes into it. He knows he can ask for things - rest longer, eat more (or less), sleep apart from them - and they’ll do their best to do it. He does know that, though he knows Aramis doesn’t believe him. It’s just difficult to remember to ask, after so long where his wants not only weren’t sought, but didn’t matter anyway. He does his best, but he keeps forgetting.

“Tell me what happened to you.”

That one’s almost impossible. Because he still loves these men, as much as he feels for anything, he doesn’t want to tell them any of the bad parts. But the other parts - the satisfaction when one of the guards learns a new move: talking quietly with Maria at the end of a long day: teasing Miguel until he’s laughing helplessly - those will only cement their opinions of him. He usually manages something about the meetings Domingo had him attend. He hadn’t known about his Ability, but he’d known Charles was good at reading people.

Athos gets tired of it in the end. He sends Aramis and Porthos to buy supplies, ordering them out when they baulk at leaving them alone, and sits down opposite Charles.

“Louis saw you whipped.”

It doesn’t seem to require an answer, so he doesn’t.

“Did that continue on the estate?”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“Three times.”

“Why?”

“I attacked his staff.”

“Why?”

He keeps going, apparently unconcerned by the shortness of Charles’ answers, digging and poking at every detail. Charles thinks vaguely about lying, but there are plenty of reasons that’s a bad idea. He just answers as best he can.

He’s exhausted by the time Athos finishes up, barely holding on to his shields. He thinks they’ve gone over every moment of his time in Domingo’s hands, and he feels as though he’s lived through it all again. He’s very nearly swaying where he sits.

“d’Artagnan.”

“Charles,” he murmurs, not really expecting anything. They’ve been calling him d’Artagnan since they took him from the estate.

Sure enough, Athos ignores it this time as well. “Do you trust me?”

“You’ve never lied to me,” he half-answers.

“But do you _trust_ me.”

Athos is holding out his hand. When did that happen?

Charles watches it warily. On a good day, he can touch things without it impacting his shields. On a good day, he could touch Athos, hug him, without feeling anything from him.

This is far from a good day. If Athos touches him, his shields will crumble into nothingness. He’ll feel everything Athos is feeling.

“Do you trust me?” Athos asks again, barely more than a whisper.

He’s so very tired.

Charles takes his hand.

 

He’s dozing when the others return, exhausted from the torrent of emotion. He hasn’t spoken to Athos, couldn’t summon the words; he’d only sat huddled in his arms, weeping steadily. Athos hadn’t tried to soothe him, either, just held him quietly, silently, warm and solid and there. Charles is still curled against him, pressed as tightly as he can manage in his half-awake state.

He’s aware of them talking - Athos warns them off touching him and they talk very quickly for a while - but he’s also _aware_ of them again in a way he hasn’t been since France. He riffles idly through their feelings, not expecting to feel any disgust or anger and unsurprised when he doesn’t. There’s just warmth and concern and deep, deep love. He’s almost floating on it.

Athos stays with him while he drifts in and out for the next while. The others are busy, then not, then Aramis is trying to get his attention.

“Yes,” he manages after too long trying to get his voice to work.

“We should get moving. Do you think you can?”

He shakes his head. He’s not going to be able to keep himself on a horse, he knows it already. He feels as though he’s just come through a bad dose of ‘flu, weak and trembly like a newborn colt.

“You can ride with me,” Athos says.

“Heavy,” he protests half-heartedly.

“You’re skin and bone,” Aramis corrects him. “We’ll need to start fattening you up. Come on.” He holds out a hand to help him up.

He rides with Athos that day, and Porthos the next, and switches to Aramis after lunch. None of them question him; none of them protest his choices. They arrange themselves around him, one in front, one behind, one with him.

He talks to all of them in bits and pieces, sentences dropped into unrelated conversations. They learn quickly not to push. Shields still shaky, emotions rocky, Charles can’t handle talking about it for more than a minute or two. He knows they’re talking to each other, but that’s fine. It will save him time in the end.

He’s talking to Porthos about Constance on the fifth or maybe sixth day. He’s a little wistful and he thinks Porthos must have noticed, because he says cheerfully “Never mind, lad. Women like a man with a couple of scars. You never know what might happen.”

Porthos hasn’t seen his back. He’s only seen the scar that spirals up Charles’ arm. That’s the only reason he reaches around Porthos to grab the reins and pull the horse to a halt instead of just jumping off. Porthos holds still while Charles slides awkwardly down. Athos comes up from behind; Aramis has paused in front.

“What happened?” Athos asks.

“I don’t know,” Porthos says, bewildered. “We were just talking about Constance, and then…” He gestures towards Charles, who’s fumbling with his tunic.

Aramis realises what he’s doing too late to stop him, swinging down from his horse. “Charles…!”

He drags the tunic off over his head, exposing his back to Porthos and Athos. “Women like scars?” he says between heaving breaths. “Maybe I should walk around like this? I’d probably be _married_ before I’d walked the length of a street, hmm?”

“All right,” Aramis murmurs, reaching his side. “Point made, well done. Why don’t we just…” He wraps his cloak around Charles, bending to scoop up the tunic. “A little break, hmm? We can all catch our breaths. Let’s walk over here a little.”

The furious anger has eased now, ebbing back into the more familiar numbness. He lets Aramis lead him away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys, lost track of the days. Next chapter posts tomorrow as it should.

Aramis doesn’t try to talk to him - or maybe he does and Charles just doesn’t register it. After a while of sitting in probably silence, Aramis helps him back to his feet and over to the horses.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Porthos says immediately.

He really is. Regret burns through Charles, and only some of it is his. “I know. I’m sorry. I overreacted.”

“You were maybe a little dramatic,” Athos allows.

“But not overreacting. I should have watched my mouth better.”

“It doesn’t matter. Mistake all around. Done with.” He goes to mount his own horse. They’ve been saddling it every day, but this is the first time he’s made any move to mount it.

He catches Porthos’ chagrin and sighs, adjusting his seat. “It’s just - we’re upset. A little distance, that’s all.”

“It’s your choice who you do or don’t ride with,” Athos says, smooth and calm. “Porthos, why don’t you take the lead? I’ll watch our back trail.” They’re well into France, they aren’t expecting any trouble, but Athos maintains the watches anyway.

Porthos nods, setting off. Aramis smiles encouragingly at Charles and follows him. Charles sighs, gathers up the reins and falls into step.

 

They stop by a lake that evening. It’s Aramis’ idea; Charles has heard him talking with Athos. It’s a good idea. Maybe he should have thought of it himself.

Athos joins him at the lake’s edge as the others set up camp. “Will it help?”

“For a little while, anyway.” He glances at Athos. “Come with me?”

“If you like,” Athos agrees. Charles starts disrobing; there’s little point in modesty now. Athos follows suit, matching Charles’ state of undress as closely as he can. Charles wades in and Athos follows, staying on his heels; when Charles lets himself float, he keeps one hand wrapped around Athos’ arm, grounding himself.

Charles is shivering by the time Athos urges him back out of the water. He submits to Athos’ help drying off and getting dressed again and drops down by the fire, watching the flames leap and enjoying the silence. He hadn’t realised how thin his shields were getting, worn down by months on the estate with no real anchor.

Athos has to try twice to get his attention. “d’Artagnan. We found something while we were looking for you.”

“Yeah?” he says dreamily, still more interested in the flames jumping nearby.

“Please listen for a moment,” and Athos is so very serious. Charles drags his attention away from the flames and onto Athos. “I was worried it would harm you, but I think perhaps it can help, and I think you need it.”

“All right,” he says slowly.

Athos produces a small pouch. Charles holds out his hand, and Athos upturns the pouch over his palm.

His rosary tumbles out. Charles catches it, fingers tightening around it automatically. “...oh…”

“I knew someone must have taken it from you. I was worried those traces would still be on it. But we have carried it between us while looking for you, I hoped that would - would clean it.”

“Will it help?” Aramis asks, watching him.

“Yes,” he murmurs, eyes closed as he rubs the beads. The tiny nick on the third one catches on his thumb, just the way it always did, and he smiles involuntarily. “Yes, it will help. Thank you.”

 

With the rosary, and the restful sleep he gains from the swim, and their long stops at every lake and river and stream they pass, Charles starts getting his shields back under control. Being around the people he knows best in the world helps, as does their insistence on camping out rather than stopping in towns.

After a few days, when he’s steadier, Athos suggests sparring. They keep it to half speed at first, since the work Charles was doing with Domingo’s men wasn’t anywhere near Musketeer level, but by the second evening they’re moving at high speed all over the clearing.

Buoyed by the success, Porthos suggests hand to hand. That doesn’t go as well. Charles runs instead of fighting; Porthos chases him around the camp for a minute or two before calling a halt.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says immediately.

“Don’t be sorry. S’just something we need to work on. D’you know why it’s happening?”

“Marcus…”

“One of the guards, yeah?”

“He has an Ability. If he gets his hand on you, skin on skin, he can control everything your body does. You can feel everything but you can’t do anything about it. And he likes hurting people. I mean, he really enjoys it. He spent some time making me slam my head into a wall one day, and that was mild.”

Porthos tries twice before he speak without his revulsion coming through. “So you’re worried about me getting my hands on you.”

“I’m sorry.” Charles is clearly miserable. “I know you wouldn’t, I do, but…”

“Instinct’s hard to beat,” Porthos agrees. “‘Specially the good ones. They’re there for a reason. How about we start with gloves and long sleeves, and you practise throwing me? I won’t touch you except for balance.”

For a moment he thinks Charles will refuse, but after a moment he smiles. “Thank you.”

Shooting practise goes better. Charles wasn’t allowed a pistol - though he _was_ allowed a crossbow, in a spectacular display of Spanish forward planning. So he’s rusty, but he has no particular bad memories attached to guns. Within a few practises he’s as good as he ever was.

Four days out from Paris they stay in an inn. Charles is a little quieter than normal, but he doesn’t seem to be stressed or badly affected, and they spend the next night indoors as well. They plan to stay in an inn on their last night, to bathe and clean up before entering the city. As they approach, though, Charles reins in abruptly, and when Athos pulls up he says only “I can’t stay there.”

No one questions him. They camp in the woods and clean up as best they can with waterskins and rags. Charles is silent and distracted, and he stays silent as they enter Paris the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

He should have told the others why he didn’t want to stay in the inn. He knows that. It’s not fair to just expect them to accommodate him. And maybe his father’s death wouldn’t have screamed at him from the yard; maybe his presence wouldn’t permeate the bar. It’s been two years, after all. But he doesn’t dare risk it, and he knows they’d understand but he doesn’t want to deal with the pity either.

Their entry into Paris is completely without fanfare. Porthos grins when he can’t help heaving a sigh of relief as they start along familiar streets. “Expecting the walls to fall in?”

“Expecting something,” he admits. “It feels too easy.”

“Does it,” Athos murmurs.

“You should be careful what you say,” Aramis says from ahead of them.

“You don’t believe in fate!” Porthos protests, joining him, and they’re off on another argument. Charles rides on, knowing it’s at least partly for his benefit, to show that there’s nothing to worry about.

The garrison is empty. Charles pulls off a glove, leaning over to press a hand against the gatepost. “No worry,” he says. “Or fear. Wherever they are, it’s not trouble.”

“They’re on a training mission.” Treville is on the balcony, watching them. “To the north of the city.”

“How did…” Charles cuts himself off as he realises how Treville knows, and what _else_ he’s likely to know. “Thank you,” he says instead.

Treville nods. “Eat, and clean up. Then you should report to the palace. I’m sure someone has already spotted you and told them.”

“Why would…” He cuts himself off again at Treville’s look.

Aramis has been watching as well. “Porthos, why don’t we go pretend to see about those things the captain mentioned.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agrees, following Aramis into the stable.

Charles crosses to the stairs, oddly lightheaded. Athos hasn’t moved, still mounted, watching.

“Am I under arrest?” Charles asks quietly.

“Not yet. While you’ve been gone, the king has - reconsidered things.”

“Helped along by Rochefort.” Dimly he knows he shouldn’t have said that.

“Eat.” Treville is angry, but not at him. “Clean up, and go to see the king. Remember that you are a Musketeer.”

“Yes, sir.”

He goes back down into the yard. The others are back, spreading food on the table. He ignores the curious looks, and then the worried looks, staring at the food until someone tells him to eat.

He obeys.

 

The others are worried. Charles quietly ignores them. Eating and cleaning up has helped; he feels a little clearer as they head up to the palace. The guards try to stop them. Athos ignores them and rides on through.

The king is in meetings. They wait patiently, and then less patiently, and then _im_ patiently. Charles leans against a wall, watching as Athos paces, Aramis flirts relentlessly with every woman who walks past and Porthos glowers at every guard. The king’s meetings go on and on until Charles starts to think they’ll be kept over night.

Eventually a guard gestures them in. It’s just Louis and Rochefort, Louis behind a desk, watching him. Charles is shielding, and his first look at Louis convinces him it’s a good idea. “Sire.”

“d’Artagnan. You’ve returned, I see. Am I about to be inundated with complaints from Spain?”

“No, sire,” he says quietly. “I was released.”

“Released,” Rochefort repeats. “A shame you couldn’t arrange that earlier.”

“I arranged it for the king,” he says blankly.

“Yes. Strange that you were able to convince this - Dominus -”

“Domingo.”

“Yes, of course. Strange that you were able to convince _Domingo_ to let him go. Whatever the terms were.” He looks Charles up and down pointedly.

Charles ignores him, watching Louis.

“I suppose you expect to return to the Musketeers now.”

“I have no expectations,” he says, shielding more tightly against the anger coming from Athos and the others. “I hope to continue serving in whatever way you see fit.”

“Do you think it is _fit_ that a man who led his king into danger and then abandoned him at the border be allowed to serve?”

“That’s not what happened!” Porthos protests.

“Porthos,” Charles says quietly. “It’s fine. No, sire,” he adds to Louis. “A man who did those things would not be fit to serve.”

“I am glad you agree. Tell me, d’Artagnan, in the same position, would you make the same choices?”

“The choices I made resulted in you returning, safe and unharmed, to the palace, sire. So yes, I would do the same again.”

Rochefort sighs as though disappointed. Louis lowers his head for a moment before looking up.

“You would allow -”

“He didn’t _allow_ -”

“And leave me on the border -”

“With a Musketeer!”

“In the _hope_ that I would get home safe?”

“Porthos, stop,” Charles says firmly, and he cuts off whatever he was about to say. “I have no excuse, sire.”

“I should hope not. You’re dismissed from the Musketeers. In light of your service, a small payment will be provided.”

“Yes, sire.” Charles is fairly sure Aramis is physically restraining Porthos.

“You’re dismissed.” Louis picks up some pages from the desk and starts shuffling them.

Charles bows, turns around and walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::hides self::


	5. Chapter 5

No one tries to talk to him, he’s fairly sure. He remembers very little about the trip back to the garrison. It’s still empty, and no one tries to stop him as he goes to his room. Apart from a thin layer of dust and some clothes tidied away, it looks the same as it did when he left it the day of Louis’ hunt. He shakes off the blankets and collapses onto the bed.

He doesn’t realise he’s slept until he wakes up. The sun’s moved around some, but it takes him a while to remember how to read it from this room; his room in Spain faced a different direction, and he’s not used to the shadows here yet. He’s been asleep for about four hours, and from the noise outside the Musketeers have returned from their training.

“I was going to close the window so they wouldn’t wake you, but it’s so stuffy in here.”

He smiles into his pillow. “Constance.”

“d’Artagnan.”

“You should be at the palace.”

“The queen sent me with a message for you. Would you like to sit up?”

He’s suddenly glad he didn’t bother getting undressed before he lay down. His tunic sleeves are long enough to hide the scars, if he’s careful. He gets up, crossing to the dresser; there’s fresh water in the jug and a brief note from Aramis telling him to come down and eat when he wakes.

“It’s good to see you,” he says over his shoulder.

“It’s good to see you. I didn’t know your mission was over.”

“No one did. It was sort of unexpected.” He rinses his face and wipes it with a rag.

Constance is behind him when he turns and he hugs her, holding on tightly. She’s a little worried about him, but mostly she’s happy to see him again, and he lets himself enjoy it for a moment before gently pushing back. “A message?”

“Oh - her majesty knows what’s happened, and she asks you to stay here for a few days; she’s trying to work something out for you. She says she knows a little about the mission, and she’s doing her best to see you’re treated the way you should be.” She’s frowning a little. “What’s going on?”

“The king - disagrees with some choices I made during the mission. He’s taken my commission.” He’s vaguely surprised it doesn’t hurt more to say.

“Oh, d’Artagnan,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

“The commission was always his to take away.”

She studies him for a moment, frowning, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m still a little - on the mission. It’s only been a short time. I’m sure I’ll start shouting and throwing things soon.”

She laughs a little at that. “I’ll warn the others.”

“Do.” He studies her. “You look well.”

“You look thin. And…” She catches herself. “I’m sure the others will have you fattened up in no time.”

“You’re supposed to take care of the queen, not me.”

“Ah, but I’m not with the queen right now, I’m with you.”

“So I’m just practise for her?”

“Something like that.” She touches his face lightly. “I’ll come back as soon as she has something.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

She smiles and takes her leave. Charles waits long enough for her to have left the garrison before he goes down to meet the others.

 

Two days later the king leaves the city for a hunt. He takes Rochefort and most of the regiment, including Athos, with him. The next day the queen sends for Charles. Porthos accompanies him to the palace, where they’re shown into her receiving room.

“Gentlemen,” she says politely. In Spanish, to Charles, she adds “d’Artagnan, I am so very sorry that my countrymen have done this to you.”

“It wasn’t any of your doing, your majesty,” he answers in kind.

“Still. I am sorry for it.” In French, she continues, “And I’m sorry for how my husband treated you.”

“That was also not any of your doing. I imagine he’s been very…” He discards ‘scared’ and says instead “ ‘unsettled’.”

“Constance said you were remarkably unruffled,” she murmurs. “It’s a shame. Fire suits you.”

“Time changes us all, your majesty.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She sighs and then straightens. “I cannot reinstate you, I’m afraid. Nor can I appoint you to any position in the palace, even if I thought you’d accept. But I do have another thought.” She catches and holds his eyes. “You are completely free to refuse this offer, d’Artagnan.”

“I understand,” he says, when she seems to be waiting for him to speak.

“I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but war with Spain seems to be growing ever closer in spite of our best efforts to avert it There are various plans in place to…”

She’s still talking, but Charles has stopped hearing her, heart pounding in his chest. Her mouth is moving. He stares at it.

Porthos’ hands are suddenly on his shoulders, thumbs pressing against his pulse point. It’s enough. He heaves in a breath, reaching up to grip Porthos’ hands with his own, grounding himself.

“She ain’t sending you to Spain,” Porthos is saying when words start making sense again. “No one’s sending you back there. Not ever.”

“I’m sorry,” Anne says, and guilt and distress thrum through Charles. “Of course you would think that. But Porthos is right, I would never ask you to return there.”

“All right?” Porthos lets go with one hand so he can address Anne. “We’re ok, I think. Just caught him off guard.”

“Only natural,” Anne agrees, “I should have been clearer from the start. My offer is not for Spain, d’Artagnan, it’s for Gascony.”

“Gascony?” he repeats. He’s still holding Porthos’ hand against his shoulder, grounding himself on it.

“Gascony has no Intendant. Since LaBarge’s rampage no one has been able to gain any foothold there. If things continue this way, soldiers will be sent in to subdue it and take the taxes by force. I know that’s not something you want.”

“I’m not a bureaucrat, your majesty, I wouldn’t know how…”

“You will have help. I have help waiting for you. You are Gascon, you will understand the people better than anyone else.”

“The people have been angry for a long time, your majesty. Sending me will not…”

“No one expects miracles,” she says gently.

“The king will -”

“The king does not know that you are going. Only that a new Intendant has been named.” She smiles a little, wry. “Details bore him. Your job is not to rule Gascony, d’Artagnan. It’s to help the man who is going with you. He doesn’t know Gascony, you see. You’ll teach him.”

He takes a long, slow breath. “I still can’t promise…”

“I understand. And hopefully there will be rather less fighting than you’re used to, although I believe some groups of bandits have made their homes there. You’ll have men under your command.”

He nods, still slowly. “When do you need my answer?”

“As soon as possible. Within two days. If you choose not to accept, I must find someone else quickly so that no one grows suspicious.”

“I understand. I thank you for the opportunity, and you will have your answer, I promise.”

“Thank you, d’Artagnan.”

He bows, deeply; she is taking a risk she doesn’t have to for him, and he appreciates it. He turns to leave, Porthos steady at his shoulder. 

 

Athos and the others return the next day. Aramis takes him aside, and a few minutes later they have a plan to spend the evening in Athos’ rooms. They leave Porthos with orders to keep Charles occupied for a little while and head to the rooms to ‘get things ready’.

“It may be a good thing.” Aramis pulls a chair over to the table, eyes it, and sits down. “Away from the court, away from Paris, he may heal better. At his best, the city wears on him.”

“In Gascony, where his home was destroyed and his people killed.”

“Gascony is a large place. He may not need to visit Lupiac.”

“Lupiac will be one of the first places he goes,” Athos says flatly. “You know that. He would consider it cowardice otherwise.”

“Save me from the stubbornness of Gascons,” Aramis mutters. 

Athos smirks at the familiar phrase and then sobers. “Have you…”

“Not yet.”

“But you plan to?”

He smiles painfully. “I suggested it to Porthos. As a hypothetical; a joke. He reacted as though I had stabbed him in the back.”

“Porthos is no less passionate than you. But he will understand in time.”

Aramis is about to speak again, but there are footsteps on the stairs. He rises to greet the others.

They chat quietly for a while, enjoying the company and Athos’ admittedly excellent wine. At some point it occurs to Aramis that the whole thing is uncomfortably like a wake, and once it has he can’t get rid of it. He supposes in a way they’re waking Charles’ career.

“You know, then,” Charles says during a quiet moment, eyes on his cup.

“Yes,” Athos says quietly.

“And your opinion?”

“You would be missed here. But it’s true that you understand Gascony better than most.”

“Two years ago.”

“Better than most.”

“Do you think that I can do it?”

“I have no doubt at all that you can do anything you choose to do.”

He swallows. “Do you think that I can do it _alone._ ”

“That will make it harder,” Athos agrees quietly. “But yes. You can do it. I know no one stronger than you.”

Aramis shifts, suddenly out of time, and breathes a prayer that Porthos will forgive him. “You needn’t be alone, Charles.”

“What?” he says, seeming genuinely confused. Good; he hasn’t picked the plan out of Aramis’ mind, then.

“There is a Jesuit community near Tarbes. They accept postulants at any time. I could go with you, stay while you find your feet and your new shields, and then enter the community.”

“You’re a Musketeer,” Charles says blankly.

“I never intended this to be my whole career. And I find my faith in the king - shaken, of late. I’d planned to leave the Musketeers eventually anyway. This way I can help you while I do it.”

“Jesuits?”

He smiles wryly. “Soldier of God.”

Charles looks at Porthos, wincing a little, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really need to. The anger rolling off Porthos is palpable even without an Ability.

“Porthos,” Aramis attempts.

Porthos stands, puts on his hat and leaves the room. Aramis stares after him helplessly.

Athos stands quietly, touches Aramis’ shoulder lightly in passing and goes after Porthos.

Charles has wrapped his arms around himself. “You could stay,” he says quietly.

“No,” Aramis says regretfully. “I can’t serve the king any more. Porthos will understand.”

Charles charitably doesn’t mention the doubt filling Aramis. He doesn’t need to. Aramis thinks it’s probably very visible.


	6. Chapter 6

Porthos goes to the nearest pub, orders beer, and muscles his way into a card game. Athos orders a mug, holds it in one hand without drinking, and leans against a wall to watch him. Porthos is deliberately playing to irritate the others, looking to drive them into a fight. Athos doesn’t interfere. There’s only three of them, and they’re thugs, not soldiers.

Porthos eventually goads them into a fight. He puts them all down in less than a minute. Grabbing his winnings, and most of his opponents’, he shoves them at the barkeep to pay for the damages and heads out the door.

Athos catches up to him halfway down the street. “Where are we going now?”

“Dunno. Another pub.”

“That’s not going to solve anything.”

“It will make me feel better.”

“No. It won’t.”

“No one said you had to come.”

“Do you think I would leave you alone right now?”

Porthos shoves past him into another pub. Athos follows quietly.

It takes three pubs, a split lip and a strained wrist before Porthos is willing to concede that maybe it’s not making him feel better. “Sparring,” he demands.

“Talk to Aramis.”

“Let’s go find some women.”

“Talk to Aramis.”

“Horses! We can take them out of the city for a really good ride!”

“Talk to Aramis.”

He scowls. “You’ve a one track mind, you know that?”

“It’s been said.” Athos steps into his path; he’s not quite staring him down, but only because his expression is not aggressive enough. “Are you angry with him?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I’m glad that our brother is following the path that will make him happy.” Porthos snorts loudly, and Athos sighs. “I will miss him, of course. But Aramis was never going to grow old as a Musketeer, Porthos. You know that, you must.”

“He has plenty of time for that!”

“He feels he can’t serve the king anymore -”

“He’s just angry, we all are -”

“- and I understand where he’s coming from.”

Porthos stares at him. “You’re not thinking of…”

“No. I won’t leave the Musketeers. But I understand why Aramis feels he has to. What happened to Charles is monstrously, grossly unfair, and Aramis has never tolerated injustice to those he loves.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Porthos asks plaintively. “What am I supposed to do without him?”

“You are supposed to do that which makes you happy, brother. I hope that is the Musketeers. But if it’s something else, that will be fine too.” 

“You would watch us all walk away from you?”

“I can’t keep you if you decide your path lies elsewhere.”

“I will never understand you,” Porthos says, almost wonderingly.

Athos starts to answer and then catches himself before he can say something unhelpful. “Don’t hurt Aramis this way. You’re not angry at him.”

“Charles’s meant to be the one saying things like that,” Porthos mutters, but the anger has drained away and he’s only tired now.

“Yes, well. I suppose I’ve learned something from him.” Athos gets a shoulder under his arm. “Come on. He’ll be so busy fussing over you he’ll forget you were angry.”

“No he won’t,” Porthos mutters, but he lets Athos guide him.

Athos focuses on burying that knee jerk response he’d only barely caught; he doesn’t want Charles picking it up. _I’ve learned not to expect the good times to last_ will not be helpful in this situation. He leads Porthos back to his rooms in silence.

 

Aramis is sitting at the table, flicking idly through a book he’s found somewhere. He glances up as they come in, motioning for quiet. “Charles is sleeping, more or less. I had to promise to stay until you returned. He didn’t much want to be alone.”

“You’re free to stay as long as you want,” Athos tells him, slipping into the bedroom.

Aramis studiously turns a page in the book. A handful of heartbeats later, he turns another.

“You’re an idiot,” Porthos announces.

Aramis looks up at him, raising one eyebrow.

“Well, you are. Don’t try to pretend you’re not -”

“I’ve not spoken -”

“- You’re an idiot, but you’re _my_ idiot, and I hate the thought of you going away. How will I know you’re all right?”

He lays the book aside. “There are letters.”

“The Jesuits could send you anywhere in the world.”

“That’s true.”

“Why can’t you be a Benedictine? They spend all their lives in the same place!”

Aramis smiles sadly. “But I’m not called to the Benedictines, Porthos. I’m called to the Jesuits, and I must obey.”

“Anywhere in the world,” Porthos repeats softly.

Aramis stands, slowly, rounding the table and laying a hand against Porthos’ cheek. His lip and wrist start to Heal. “If nothing had happened,” he says quietly, “Spain, and Charles, and the king - if we had only gone on serving as we always have, then I doubt I would be thinking of this. But I cannot serve a king who can throw away a man like that.” He catches Porthos’ eye and sighs. “Yes, perhaps I should have thought of this after Savoy. But that is different. Charles did everything right. He suffered unaccountably for the king’s freedom, and Louis has rewarded him with scorn and dismissal. I cannot serve him, Porthos. Not even to remain at your side. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe it’s something that started there. At Savoy.”

“Maybe,” he agrees quietly. “I have not told you this, Porthos - no one knows this. But while we searched in Spain - when those letters came from Treville - there were times I despaired.”

“No there weren’t,” Porthos says, startled. “Athos an’ me, we had our moments, but you…”

“I prayed,” Aramis says softly. “I begged God for his safety. I swore to obey Him in all things, all my life, if he would only allow us to save Charles. I prayed endlessly, for days, and in my darkest moment I knew, suddenly, as clear as a bell, that things would work out. Treville’s last letter found us the next day. We saved Charles, and now I hear the monastery calling me more clearly than it ever has. I _must_ obey, my friend. My brother. Please say you understand. Don’t make me leave you like this.”

“You would, would you?”

“I love you as I love no one else on this Earth. But a vocation this clear cannot be ignored. I’m _sorry_.”

Porthos sighs. “You’re an idiot,” he repeats, pulling Aramis into a hug. Aramis goes willingly, wrapping both arms around him.

“Letters,” Porthos says, voice rough. “All the damn time. Jesuits ain’t secluded, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Letters all the time.”

“Or I’m coming after you.”

“I have no doubts.” He loosens his grip, pulling back.

“I’m gonna ask something indelicate,” Porthos announces.

“You? Never.”

“The Queen,” he says, eyes gentle, “and the Dauphin.”

Aramis draws in a shuddering breath. “I know. But neither was ever going to be mine. And watching from the walls, the corners, unseen - I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that, Porthos. Not for a whole lifetime.” He squeezes Porthos’ arm. “I leave them to you and Athos. I know that you will protect them just as I would.”

Porthos nods, returning the squeeze. “To the end.”

“The attacker’s end, I hope.”

“Naturally, who else’s end could I mean?”

Aramis smiles, squeezing his arm again. Athos comes out from the bedroom, boots off and jerkin hanging open. “Are you two staying tonight?”

Aramis nods. “We are.”

 _One last night together_ , none of them say.


	7. Chapter 7

They end up staying up most of the night, each of them sleeping in snatches here and there. There is wine; there are cards - although they refuse to let Porthos bet. (“You’re taking a vow of poverty anyway!” “Not quite yet, my friend.”) At one point Aramis stages a dramatic reading of some poetry he finds hiding under several volumes of military history on Athos’ shelf.

He checks carefully first, but the book has no inscription marking it to or from Milady, and Athos doesn’t seem discomforted.

Charles wanders out of the bedroom at some point and immediately falls asleep again on Athos’ shoulder; they let him sleep for a while and then decamp as a group back to the bedroom before he can get too stiff. They’re more quiet now, chatting, wandering from topic to topic and talking over each other and backtracking. It’s one of the more pleasant nights Aramis can remember.

The next day he goes to Treville to resign.

It’s not as unpleasant as he was expecting; Treville doesn’t seem surprised, exactly. He makes a token effort at changing Aramis’ mind, tells him he’ll be missed and wishes him well.

“Did you See something, sir?” It’s borderline rude, but he thinks he’ll get away with it under the circumstances.

“No. But I make it my business to know my men. Let me know if either of you needs anything.”

Aramis nods, touching the brim of his hat lightly as he turns to leave.

Days speed past in preparation. Charles’ allowance comes through and is spent on supplies; he meets Leroux, the man he’ll be working with, and they talk for a while, getting to know each other and learn how the other works.

Aramis isn’t there when Charles meets Constance; Athos is, but he says little about it. Charles comes home quiet and goes straight to bed. “I believe they parted as well as they could have,” is all Athos will say. Aramis aches for Charles. They all know how desperately he loves her, and there’s no guarantee now that he’ll ever see her again.

Porthos takes Charles to see Flora. Outside of the city, he shouldn’t have too much trouble anyway, but considering the strain he’s been under for nearly a year they all want to make sure he’s all right. Porthos reports that he was banished from the meeting so has no idea how it went; Charles says only that it went well and he should be all right.

And then the day comes.

It’s been almost academic up to now, despite their preparations and purchases and discussions. But now the horses are loaded up, their remaining belongings packed neatly into Leroux’s carriage, and they’re staring rather helplessly at the others.

Porthos breaks the stand off, striding forward to sweep first Charles, then Aramis into a hug. “Letters,” he says into Aramis’ ear.

“All the damn time,” Aramis agrees solemnly, and smiles at the bark of laughter.

Athos hugs them as well. “Be well,” he tells them. “Remember that so far as we’re concerned, you are both Musketeers. Only call and we will come.”

Aramis nods. Charles steps in for another hug, which Athos gives easily.

“Here, hang on,” Porthos says, tugging at Charles’ belt. Charles looks down, bemused, but lets him strip off his weapons and holsters. Athos, apparently in on the plan, is pulling his own dagger sheath from his belt; Porthos threads it onto Charles’ and replaces his dagger in it before switching his pistol holster with Charles’. “There. Something of us to go with you.”

“It’s good?” Athos asks, watching him.

Charles runs a hand over the sheath, smiling. “It’s very good. Thank you. Both of you.”

Athos nods solemnly, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “We’re with you.”

“Always,” Porthos adds.

Charles nods, rubs his face briskly and mounts up. Aramis pulls them into a three way hug before mounting himself. They have to meet Leroux outside the city gates and they’ll be late if they don’t go.

For as long as the garrison is in view, Athos and Porthos are standing outside it, watching them go.

 

_Dated sixteen months after the return from Spain, in a clerk’s hand, addressed to Athos at the Musketeer garrison;_

Monsieur,

Intendent d’Artagnan requests your presence at the baptism of his first born daughter, along with Monsieur Porthos du Vallon. Additionally, Intendant d’Artagnan asks that you honour him by agreeing to serve as godfather. Please respond within four weeks of the date of this letter to allow for plans to be laid…

 

_Below it, in d’Artagnan’s hand:_

You two missed my wedding, as if one more group of bandits running around Calais makes any difference. Come to the baptism. Aramis is coming to officiate; he’s not really supposed to yet, since he’s still a novice, but Father Armand is going to do all the important bits and Aramis will preach. No pulling faces at him, Porthos! I’m not defending you if you get thrown out of church for misbehaving.

Come. We want to see you again.

Come.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I _maaaaay_ have folded in a third verse...


End file.
